Wartorn Angel
by StarArrow
Summary: The world goes to war and takes the Magic of Misseltwaite away with it. Mary and Colin are unsure how to handle Dickon's absence, but are even more unprepared the condition the war returns him in. What happened to Mary's angel when he was away? Mary/Dickon
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Chapters will be posted on Tuesdays. There are four. I have all but the last one completed. This story is a kind of mix between the 1970s movie (on Netflix), the 1993 movie, and the book. Enjoy.

Summary: The world goes to war and it takes the Magic of Misselthwaite away with it. Mary and Colin are unsure of how to handle Dickon's absence, but even more unprepared for his condition when he is returned to them. Mary/Dickon

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

A new magic settled over Misseltwaite. The dreariness that had saturated it when Mary first arrived was banished by a new, glowing happiness that wove itself into every room and person. There was a new lightness to the place that seemed to have no end. Master Craven stayed at home after he discovered his son's impending death was naught. He did not make another trip abroad for nearly ten months, and only then with Mary and Colin in tow and ready for an adventure.

Dickon was left to care for the garden when they were gone. He took his job as seriously as he treated everything else in life. With a sureness that calmed Mary's worries about her beloved bit of earth, he laid out his plan for the three months she would be traveling through Europe. She lay on the cool grass by the lilies the night before they were set to leave and listened to him talk about weeding and planting and pruning and decided he was probably the one thing in life she never, ever wanted to lose. Her garden could always be replanted, Misselthwaite rebuilt, and new possessions bought, but there would only ever be one Dickon Sowerby.

As it turned out, one trip abroad was enough for her. Boats and foreign lands just reminded her of India and not the love and warmth she enjoyed at Misselthwaite. Colin was confounded by her admission. Mary tried to explain the sense of home and comfort she found in the manor and on the moor, somewhere she belonged and was wanted. He believed her, but could not relate. His childhood prison was not where he wished to spend all of his hours when there was a whole world to explore and discover. When the next winter came, she stood with the rest of the staff and her new governess, Miss Daubney, and waved to her uncle and cousin as their carriage took them toward London where they would travel by boat and train to Germany and then they would be on to Northern Africa. Once they were out of sight, she reached her hand out to Dickon and tugged him away from the house, ignoring the calls from Miss Daubney.

"Where art tha' goin' in such a hurry, Miss Mary?" he laughed as he sprinted beside her, the warmth from his hand seeping through the wool of her gloves. She grinned and kept running. They stumbled through the door of the garden and fell down onto the large stones that dug a path through the browned bushes and grass, gasping for breath and giggling.

"We have not been to the garden alone since we let Colin in," she told him finally, pushing away from the cold stone and sitting up. "I wanted to see if it still felt the same as before."

"An' does it?" he asked, still laying on the ground beside her and looking up at her with eyes that reflected the pure blueness of the sky.

She picked a crispy, dull brown leaf out of his curly hair, set it beside others on the edge of the path, and shook her head. "No."

He sat up quickly, a worried frown on his face. Searching her eyes, he asked, "Why nowt?"

She pursed her lips and thought for a moment as she looked around the garden. It was not just that the place felt different, but she felt as if she had changed as well. "I am much less contrary than I was then. That absolutely must have something to do with it."

Dickon chuckled. "Tha' will aye be a bit contrary, Miss Mary. But, aye, tha' frown has nowt come 'round as of'en. An' look at thee now! All ruddy cheeked an' smilin'. That first spring, I though' to m'self, never have I ever seed a lass as un'appy an' pale faced as thee were."

She thumped him on the shoulder making him laugh again. His laugh was quiet and did not disrupt the air the way some people's did. It blended in with the soft sounds of the living things around them. It was the most pleasant sound she could ever remember hearing. "I didn't have much to smile about then. I have lots of things now. I have the garden and Misselthwaite, Colin and Uncle Archie, and Martha. And I have you, Dickon. You are the best friend any girl could ever want. Sometimes, I wonder if it wasn't the garden that changed me, but you."

Dickon smiled warmly at her and held out a hand as he stood. She took it and he brought her to her feet. "T'was garden done it. It brough' us together. You an' me an' Master Colin. It knew us needed one 'nother."

"I suppose so," she agreed and followed him further into the garden, kicking through pile of downed leaves as she went.

That winter was a cold one. There were days when the snowdrifts would pile so high against the house that she could see them peeking above the ledge of the windows on the bottom floor. Mary spent much of the season in lessons with Miss Daubney learning French and peeking at the medical journals that had been delivered for Colin to study once he returned. They were much more interesting than hers and she would sneak into her uncle's study at night to read them. Her governess pretended not to see her.

Miss Daubney was not like the governesses she had frightened away in India. She was a Londoner and her father was a doctor. She hardly ever became truly cross with Mary, but was stern in a caring sort of way. More than once, she caught her looking through Colin's texts and put aside the studies for the day and held a discussion about medicine instead. Those were the only days she truly enjoyed, for French and dry stories bored her.

Dickon attempted to keep her company during the dull, gray days, but the weather made it nearly impossible for him to stay long. Mrs. Medlock would insist he leave before the afternoon was up in order to make it home and then she would spend the rest of her night pretending she was not looking out the windows or biting her nails to the quick worrying about him freezing to death out on the moor. Finally, after nearly a month of sore fingertips, she relented and forced Dickon to stay the night.

"It's just for the one night. You hear me, boy?" Mary laughed behind her hand as she listened to the strict housekeeper give her orders. Mrs. Medlock had taken a liking to Dickon, just as everyone did, and she was not a mite happy about it.

Dickon's new room, which was used many more times than just that one night, was was only a small, old servant's room tucked away in the corridor between Mary's room and Colin's. More often than not, the two ended up staying together only to be found by Martha the next morning and hurried back into the correct beds. Propriety, of class and gender, never bothered the children, but Martha warned them Medlock would go into fits if she ever found them. Dickon agreed and, being that he was the early riser, made sure Mary was always in the correct spot when the sun rose, even if it meant carrying her there himself. Martha watched her brother closely and curiosity finally got the better of him and he asked her about her conflicted expression one morning.

"Tha' art a lovin' lad, Dickon, to be sure, but I worry abou' tha' heart," she told him as she pulled the bedclothes off of Miss Mary's bed for washing.

Dickon lifted the basket for her to drop the sheets in and gave her words some thought. His heart was open as a young lamb's. There was no cause for him to be skittish about love or friendship. Perhaps, if there were ever a reason for him to, he would guard it a little more closely, but, as of yet, he had not experienced anything so dreadful that he must. "Miss Mary will nowt cause me grief."

"I hope tha' art right." She sighed and took the basket from him, ruffling his hair. "Run alon' now an' meet Miss Mary in her lessons."

Dickon gave his sister a queer look, but left to find Mary, who would doubtless be in the library slumped slightly in her chair and making her feet dangle so that the tips scrapped the rug underneath them. The soft shushing sound they made drove Miss Daubney mad and it amused the girl to no end when that little wrinkle of irritation formed between the woman's eyes. Secretly, though he only smiled when the governess' back was turned, it amused him too.

Colin returned in the spring with even more books and Mary devoured them. It was uncommon for a girl such as herself, Mrs. Medlock said, but Mary enjoyed them far to much listen to her sour remarks. She also knew the housekeeper worried that she would end up in the same situation as her tutor. Unmarried and too educated.

The three friends spent the rainy days in the library, sipping hot chocolates and laughing over Colin's tales from lands with strange names and customs. The garden, which had always tethered each of them within the orbit of the others, was no longer their only playground and sometimes Mary would look up from a book, glance at Colin as he was in deep discussion about science and magic with Dickon while the older boy cuddled a tiny rabbit, and miss the smell of roses.

The world went to war not long after Dickon turned fifteen. Men from the village began leaving within weeks and Mary and Colin sat beside the radio in the study and frowned at each other as they listened to the excited announcements. At thirteen, they were just beginning to comprehend the effects of smaller things on the world at large and a war did not bode well for anyone, even if it would be over by Christmas. Dickon no longer joined them as often and had to spend most of his time working with Ben Weatherstaff after his oldest brother, Michael, left. His family needed the extra wages and Master Craven typically sent more home with Martha and Dickon than he had before to help them keep meals on the table.

Three years later, they were still at war and men were either coming back missing limbs and haunted or not at all. Lord Craven and Colin had avoided traveling since anywhere in Europe was too dangerous and the seas were nearly as bad. Even Japan, all the way on the other side of the world, was involved. The United States of America joined the fray a few months before Dickon turned eighteen. Mary watched his birthday approach and then fade into the past with apprehension. The Service Act had come into effect the year before and it was only a matter of time before he was called.

The day came sooner than she hoped. In the heat of late summer, Dickon approached her when she was alone in the garden, his hat off and clenched between his hands. "Miss Mary?"

She had been weeding a patch of violets and heard the rough catch in his voice. Looking up and resting her dirt covered hands on her thighs, she froze. His face was twisted in an expression she had never seen on him before. Anxiety. Standing, she went to him in three quick steps and covered his fisted hands with her own. "When?"

"This mornin'. I have three day a'fore I leave. Don' know where I'm goin' yet, but I have t' train here in Englan' firs' a'fore I go," he told her, his voice quiet and his hands flexing against his cap.

Mary nodded. She and Colin had followed the war doggedly since it had began; she knew the procedures. "I'll tell Uncle Archie for you. Maybe he won't take it as hard that way. I know he has been just as worried as the rest of us about it. He will want you over for dinner with your mother and father and brothers and sisters."

"Tomorrow. I have t' tell my mother tonigh'," he said, his voice barely a whisper now. His cheeks were not their usual rosy tint, but pale and his freckles stood out starkly in contrast. It made Mary feel uneasy to see his appearance change so drastically. "I come straigh' here t' tell thee withou' stoppin' by th' cottage firs'."

Ducking her head to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes, she kissed both his hands. Looking back up, she could see tears shining in his own eyes. "You'll be-you'll be fine, Dickon. I know it."

Dickon shook his head, his expression darkening even more. He let out a great breathing sigh and bowed his head until the bridge of his nose rested on her forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm a'fraid, Miss Mary. More a'fraid than I have ever been in m'life. Whot's a body like m'sen have business doin' bein' in a war?"

Letting go of his hands, she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed herself tightly to him, inhaling the scent of heather from the soft fabric of his threadbare shirt. "You'll be fine. You must be."

There was no argument from Dickon as he wrapped his arms more firmly around her and dropped his face back into her hair. War had arrived at Misselthwaite and it felt as if the magic that had penetrated the gloom was tearing apart.

The next night, the entire Sowerby clan was crowded around the large table in the grand dining room of the manor. Mary smiled warmly at the sight. Of all the men and women who had paraded through the room since her uncle's reintroduction to society, these were the ones who's company she most enjoyed. Servants who were usually on the outside edges of the meal were seated at the table drinking and eating beside the master of the house, all gathered to say farewell to the boy who had brought happiness back to the manor. Her uncle sat at the head of the table with a bereaved look. He feared the loss of the common boy who had become part of their strange little family, but he worried more about what it may do to Colin and Mary.

As they were eating, Colin stood with his glass and cleared his throat. "It has been a heart-breaking thing, this war. We have seen our countrymen lost and our own cities bombed, but we are Englishmen and we will always stand to face the Hun. But, now our Dickon has been called to war. We have been friends for six years, he, Mary, and I. He was there to catch me when I took my first steps and I wish he did not have to go on this journey alone without the support of friends beside him, as he has always stayed beside us. Dreariness aside, I know he was serve his country well and, even though we do not go with him, I know our hearts will be wherever he is. My friend, may the end of this war be swift and your luck be plentiful. To Dickon."

There was a resounding "here, here" as everyone took up their glass and drank to him. Mary sipped the wine in her glass and grimaced. Colin's toast had sounded less than cheerful. Then again, it was not a cheerful occasion. Glancing up, she caught Dickon looking at her and plastered on a small smile for him. The frown he had worn in the garden the day before had not gone away and it worried her that she would not see him smile again before he left.

After dinner, she pulled him away from the servants who were mingled in with the Sowerby's, chatting away with the family in front of the big kitchen fires. She had ransacked her drawers that morning looking for some token of her's he could take with him and, in her search, she had come across something that would be even better. Without speaking, she led him to the garden. It seemed like the place they were supposed to be before he left. She did not know where Colin had gone, but it did not bother her that he was not there.

She sat down on the swing and he gave her a gentle push. Grinning back at him, she pulled her discovery out of the pocket of her gown. "Look what I found."

Dickon leaned over her shoulder and peaked at the papers she held in her hand. "Whot's tha', Miss Mary?"

"Our pictures! The ones Colin took in the garden my first summer here after Uncle Archie gave us real film." She flipped through them as he sat down beside her, rocking them gently with one foot and mirroring their pose in the photographs. They wore soft, matching smiles as he took them and studied each one. They were so young then. He started to hand them back, but she pressed his hand away. "Take them with you. To remember the garden and...me."

Dickon gave a short, huff of a laugh and shook his head. "I don' think I'll ever forget eith'er of thee."

Mary sniffed and went to take the pictures from him. "Well, if you don't want them-"

"Nay, that's nowt whot I said," he groused, holding them out of her reach. "I shall take one an' keep it by my heart. T' protect me. You can keep th'others."

His tone was light-hearted and joking, but his words made Mary wilt.

"Oh, Dickon, you must be careful there. I can't stand the thought of you not coming back," she whispered, clinging to his arm and looking at him with shining eyes. Her voice catching slightly, she continued, "I think all the Magic would die if you did."

Resting his face against the rough rope that held up the swing, Dickon shuffled the photographs around to give his hands something to do. That was something he had considered. "Now, Miss Mary, don' go frettin' abou' me."

Mary shook her head and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. "I wish I didn't have to. So many boys aren't coming home. Please, Dickon, just please."

Dickon licked his lips, suddenly dry, and cleared his constricting throat. "I know," he murmured, running a hand over the back of her head, pushing his fingers through her soft hair. "I know."

He left the next morning by train with his sack over one shoulder. She and Colin went with him to the station, and, when they returned to Misselthwaite, the Magic seemed to have left with him.

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><p>AN: Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I went to a local rendition of the Secret Garden musical last week and I was so incredibly astounded. Part of it was because the high school students were AMAZING (seriously, they sounded better than the original Broadway cast album), but I was also really intrigued by the story line changes and the integration of new characters. If you get the chance, I would recommend you see it.

Anyway, this week, Mary and Colin are trying to live life without Dickon, which is strange for them because he has always been there.

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

The late summer turned into fall and Dickon left England, but the telegraphs and letters he was able to get through to them were so few and far between, they hardly ever knew where he was. With little else to do, Mary began taking daily walks to the Sowerby cottage after lessons with Miss Daubney, at first to tend to Dickon's small vegetable garden, and then to chase after the youngest two children while their mother was busy with the house once the weather turned colder. All four of the older girls and boys that were still living at home were working now that Dickon and Michael were gone and they were old enough. Two were at Misseltwaite with Martha, doing housemaid's work.

By late fall the rain had started and it caused the entire moor to become gloomy and dull. Mary sat running her hand over the smooth, worn wood of the kitchen table and watched Mrs. Sowerby slice potatoes while she cuddled the youngest boy, Jamie, in her lap. He was nearly eight now, almost too old for cuddles, but he had always been the one Dickon dotted on and now he sought comfort from Mary when he missed his brother.

Mrs. Sowerby looked up at her from her pile of potato cubes. Jamie was snoring softly against Mary's shawl or she would have offered to help with the vegetables.

"He wakes up a' night screamin' an' hollerin' for Dickon. The whole war has th' wee ones terrified. Hardly a one o' them sleeps through th' night," the woman told Mary. She shook her head and laid her knife down. The rain against the windows beat softly and broke the thick silence of the small room. Even past the blurred rivets streaming down the panes and the gray sheet that had settled outside, the green moors were still visible. Mrs. Sowerby sighed and sat back against her chair, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. "My Dickon belongs on those moors. Not on some plot o' earth he had nowt a fair reason t' be steppin' on in th' first place."

Mary had watched the lines on the mother's face grow heavy and her rosy red cheeks, so similar to Dickon's, had grown blotchy and off-color. She had to be strong for her. "I always said he was an angel. A wild moor angel who showed Colin and I the life in all the grayness around us."

The little boy tucked in her arms shifted and sprawled himself across her lap. She pressed his unruly curls away from her face and when she looked back up, Mrs. Sowerby was giving her a watery smile.

"Don' tha know Miss Mary, I 'ave raised twelve little boys an' girls an' nowt a one has a soul like Dickon does. There'rt days I looks at him an' think, why if I hadn't carried him under my own heart all those month an' birthed 'im m'sen, I would think he were some wild babe o' th' moor, dropped upon my stoop by a fox in th' middle o' th' night fo' me t' raise 'til wild babe could become wild boy an' wander back out among th' growin' things." Wiping at her eyes with her sleeve, the woman picked up her knife and began cutting vegetables again. She nodded toward the door. "Now, tha' best run along a'fore tha's uncle starts worryin' about thee. The rain is lettin' up an' tha' mighten nowt get a'nother chance."

"I'll stay a little longer. Just 'til he wakes up," Mary told her softly. The walk across the moor was lonely and it usually only reminded her of Dickon. It was cruel, what she did to herself every morning and night by forcing herself to trudge through the brisk air of the moor that smelled like heather and grass and animals to spend her time among little boys and girls who had Dickon's eyes and smile and those sporadic little curls that never lay flat. Somedays, most days, she felt that it hurt more than helped, but she could not stop herself. "I just want it to end."

"Whot's that, dear?" Mrs. Sowerby asked as she sliced into a potato.

"The war. I want it to end." She sounded petulant. Almost like she had when she was ten and used to getting her way all of the time, but she did not care. It had already gone on so long and she feared the longer it went on, the more likely it was that..."He must come back, Mrs. Sowerby. I don't think I would know how to be completely happy again without him near. He has always been there and it feels very queer to be alone in the garden without him."

It was a realization that had snuck up on her in the months since Dickon had left. When Colin and Uncle Archie went on their tours, she missed them terribly, but Dickon's absence was an ache that made her bones weak and the robust energy that she had grown accustomed to having since she first found the garden was sapped away quickly by the slightest chill. She had taken to bed sick at least once a fortnight since August, Her plights were probably only worsened by the her torturous walks. She concluded her childish insistence that it was actually Dickon who had awoken the Magic of the garden was correct. Without her angel, there was no Magic, just dying leaves and dormant plants. She could hardly even look at her one time haven anymore.

She did not realize she was crying until Jamie reached his little hand up and caught a tear from her chin. "Why art tha' cryin', Miss Mary? Is som'thin' th' matter?"

"No, no, go back to sleep. Your mother is about to start cutting the onions and my eyes were just preparing themselves." The child was satisfied with the lie and settled back down, grasping at the fringe on her shawl and tucking it against his chest.

Mrs. Sowerby frowned across the table. There were times the girl held her stony resolve so well it was as if she were not the least bit affected by the troubled times they were in. Then there were moments when the cracks widened just enough that the pain Mary felt was so evident that it broke the mother's heart. She and Martha had spoken of it on Martha's last day home, but neither woman knew what to do to help the girl. Mrs. Sowerby decided in the end to mention it to Master Craven.

He in turn, took to watching his niece with the same rapt attention that she and Colin gave to the war radio broadcast each morning and night. Mary, who he stilled viewed as the stronger of the two, had slipped his notice in favor of his worry over the new study habits his son had taken up. Colin spent days upon days studying medical books. Preparing for school, he said. They needed more doctors and he needed to be ready. After watching her, Archibald realized his niece may be in just as bad of a way or worse than Colin. She was eating just enough to keep her going and she slept fitfully according to Martha. He was worried. He had never seen her more despondent than she was now. Any lull in the conversation was immediately patched by war news or war needs or war casualties.

The situation became even more troublesome when those conversations came to an abrupt end around February. Shortly after, she fell ill with one of her colds that she had been so prone to as of late, but her energy never seemed to return afterward. Her visits to the Sowerby cottage stopped and even rising from bed became difficult.

"Mrs. Medlock, send Martha and Miss Daubney to me please," he ordered his housekeeper after Mary had been ill for nearly two weeks. Colin was sitting across the study, reading a book on the topic of medicine. Archibald felt unprepared to care for either child's distress, but at least Colin's did not seem to be damaging his health as badly as Mary's did. He was not sleeping, but he was not sick either.

Martha arrived first and stood apprehensively just inside the door.

"You called fo' me, m'lord?" He could tell the maid was trying to refine her thick Yorkshire brogue, but he had missed hearing the dialect since Dickon had left and was surprisingly saddened by the attempt.

"You have been caring for my niece while she has been ill?" He was under the impression that the maid had been forsaking her other duties to care for his niece. Others were making comments about it, but he was overwhelmingly grateful.

Martha nodded. "I have, sir. She has grown stronger over th' past few days, but is still feelin' poorly."

"Nothing the doctor has done helped?" The family doctor, Aberdeen, had been hired after his brother, Neville, had resigned his position upon Colin's recovery. He was at as much of a loss as to how to keep the girl healthy as everyone else.

"No, sir. He says it is a malady o' the mind an' nowt th' lung." She bit her lip and continued. "I think him right, sir. She has taken my younger brother's absence especially hard, if tha does nowt mind my sayin'."

"I know of my niece's affection for Dickon, Martha," he reminded her. The class difference that was so obvious now between he and the maid never made itself known between her own brother and the Craven family. The awkwardness in the the stiff way she held herself had never affected Dickon. He was comfortable anywhere. Moor royalty, Mary called it once.

Martha nodded and licked her lips nervously. "Aye, sir. An' my own brother's affection fo' Miss Mary is beyond question. But, it's just...if I could beg your pardon, sir..."

Archibald nodded to her. "Go on, child."

The maid looked at him with wide eyes. "I hope you don' take offense in my saying so, but I think it may be more than just affection...an' that's why it is effectin' her so terribly."

"I am inclined to agree with her, sir." He had not even seen Miss Daubney step in from the side door, but the woman seemed to have heard most of the conversation. "She does appear to have an affliction of the heart and very little distraction from it."

"Love. Ah, dear child. She found love," he whispered to himself as he sat back in his chair, peaking his fingertips in front of his face. It was more than he could ask for, his children finding the happiness of love. But the agony she must be feeling to not know her love was safe. An agony he was all too familiar with. He looked back to Martha, who was still standing stiffly just inside the door. "This is what is grieving her then, not any other ailment?"

"Aye, sir. She took ill th' day we got word from Twaite that a boy who came back did nowt survive his wounds. Infection." The boy had been in her brother Michael's regiment and lost both an arm and most of his left leg in the trenches. It was miracle he had made it home at all. "I do nowt think she had worried abou' that. A'fore, she was only worried abou' him comin' back an' now it is restin' on her mind that even if he does, she might still lose him."

The thought sent a pang through Archibald's heart, too. He would have to get the name of the family in Thwaite and send his sympathies. He had spent so many years thinking his own son would be lost; he could not imagine it actually happening.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Colin huffed, setting his thick tome aside and rising suddenly. His father watched him leave the room with wide eyes. His son had been increasingly sluggish lately as he spent more and more time reading and little of it sleeping. His abrupt return of energy was somewhat comforting.

Colin stomped upstairs, not caring that his loud footfalls were probably drawing attention of everyone in the manor. His cousin needed to pull herself together. Without knocking or pausing to ask entry, he forced her heavy door open and went straight to her sleeping quarters.

"Out of bed this instant, Mary Lennox," he bellowed as soon as he entered. Then he stopped short. Mary_ was_ out of bed. She was standing before her wardrobe fully dressed and looking gaunt and pale in her typical daydress. "What in the Lord's name are you doing?"

Mary barely glanced at him. Instead, her attention was focused on two dresses she held in her hands. She dropped the plainer one into her trunk and hung the other back up. "I am going to France to join an aid detachment."

Colin, who had been planning his grand speech all the way up to her room, was momentarily flabbergasted. "You-you will do no such thing!"

His cousin gave him a derisive look. "You can't order me around anymore now than when we were ten, Colin. I have made up my mind."

"A mind that has obviously gone completely mad. What are _you _going to do in an aid detachment?" He asked indignantly. As much as he had been studying, he was not deluded enough to think that he would be any help to the war itself. Recovery, yes, he could help with that once he had been taught. Survival, not so much. "Honestly, I want to know. What do you expect to help with, Mary? Apply a few bandages and bring the dying ones water?" His voice was rising to a near yell. "No! You would arm deep in blood and shrapnel. They would be handing you dead limbs to dispose of. You would be holding the hands of men as they sobbed because they knew their wound was going to be the death of them and then you would have to watch the life drain out of their eyes and not be able to do a thing about it."

"If that's what it takes, then so be it," she snapped at him, spinning around and facing him head on. "I would hold the hands of a hundred men if-"

"What? What are you going to do for them, Mary?" Colin cut in. "Even if they have immediate care, the worse could still happen and there would be nothing you could do about it. There are so many factors to helping the wounded survive. Surgery, stitching, bandaging, bathing, cleaning, caring for them while they are still bedridden. You may have read about them, but you do not know how to _do _any of those things."

"I can learn, Colin. Don't forget, I've read just as many of those books as you have. So don't try to lecture me about all that when you haven't made a stitch more than I have," she screeched at him imperiously, her voice rising to a strong yell.

"What on Earth?" Her uncle said from the doorway, eyeing Mary's open trunk.

The two teenagers spun toward him and he took in their appearance. Red-faced, eyes bright, shoulders stiff and back straight with clenched fists. Even if they were fighting, Archibald was thrilled at the life in their features. They were filled with more fire than he had seen in months.

"Uncle, I-"

Colin started speaking over Mary and won out when she went back to packing her trunk. "She's planning to run away and join an aid detachment."

Archibald's eyebrows rose. "She will do no such thing."

"That is what I told her," Colin told him smugly. "You see how well she is listening. No one can order around the Missie Sahib."

Mary turned on him. "I told you never to call me that, you spoiled rajah."

Colin glowered at her and stepped close. "Better than a spoiled-"

"That is _enough_, children," Archibald said, his voice level and serious. Both looked at him, their shame evident in their blushing cheeks and the way they could not quite meet his eyes. "Mary, you are not going to France. Now, let Martha take your trunk and stop this nonsense. Perhaps I can get more news from the front and Dickon's regiment if I contact a few friends." He had already written several acquaintances connected with the government, but they knew little of day to day matters on the front lines. There were a few connection he still had through Mary's father. Perhaps one of them would know something.

"No!" Mary, sixteen years old and nearly a lady, stamped her foot like a child. "I am going. They need help."

"And you will not be the one to help them," her uncle told her, his voice giving no room for negotiation. Mary opened her mouth to argue anyway and he went on, "Haven't you any idea what kind of things you would see? I won't allow it. I know you miss Dickon, but you cannot save him by going into the thick of it and getting yourself in trouble."

"There are many women on the front already, Uncle. I would not be alone with all of those men if that's what you are worried about." She jutted her chin out defiantly. Her plan had been to avoid her uncle and simply leave a note after stealing away in the spare carriage.

Fury rising, her uncle stood fully, face reddening. "You think I am worried about your reputation? Damnation, girl! I am worried about your life! They are not sparing anyone in this war. You_ know _how many hospital ships have been attacked. How many towns have been bombed. I have heard you listening to it on the radio."

Never had she heard her uncle use such language and it made the doubts she had forced away creep back into her mind. She was going to stand her ground though. She had to. Never had she felt so entirely useless in her life than sitting at home the past few months. Even during the days when she sat around doing nothing in India. Helping Mrs. Sowerby was a stratagem for taking her mind off the matter. The woman was more than capable of taking care of the remaining four children that were still around the house. She had cared for twelve at once point after all. Mary was just there to keep her hands busy.

Her voice quivering slightly, she raised her nose and braced her shoulders. "I am going, Uncle. I'll wait out in the bunkers and cart around all the dead limbs I have to if it means saving even one of our men."

"But you being there won't save_ him_, Mary!" Colin ground out. Her fevers must have gone to her head, he thought. She was being irrational. "He would only have more to worry about once he found out. Do you think he would be happy to hear that you put yourself in danger because you had some strange delusion about going there to save him? You couldn't do anything to help him if something happened. Nothing more than watch."

And that was it, wasn't it? She just wanted to save him if it came to that end and, even though she was unprepared in anyway for it, she felt that she was the only one who could.

"Oh, stash it, Colin. You have no idea what you are talking about." Mary told him, but her fire seemed to have gone out and she felt incredibly weak again. "I must do something. I am absolutely useless here."

"Perhaps if I may make a suggestion, sir?" Miss Daubney said from behind Archibald. She had remained silent during Mary and Colin's squabble, but a thought had struck her at the end. Her pupil spent ample amounts of time with her own thoughts. That was a large part of the overarching problem. "There are many orphanages forming in London for children from Britain and Belgium. They are in grave need of assistance and Mary knows how to care for children."

Mary sat up out of Colin's hold. "An orphanage."

"Yes. My father works at a hospital in London and they process several children daily before sending them on to the houses. They have no one and many of the orphanages are understaffed," the governess told her. "He could recommend you to one that would be a good fit. Caring for the younger children, I think. The older ones are nearly your own age."

The weakness in Mary's bones began to dissipate and she looked anxiously at her uncle. "Could I?"

"You would leave the manor?" He was surprised. She had always been so adamant that this was her home and she never wished to leave. Especially her garden.

Mary nodded. "I think I must."

"And caring for children? That is what you wish to do?"

His niece gave a little laugh and wiped her eyes, which had teared up a bit when she was fighting. "I care for Dickon's little brothers and sisters everyday. Well, I did before I took ill. Besides gardening, French, and medical facts that I have no experience in carrying out, it is the only thing I am truly good at."

"Oh, child, you are much more talented than that," he said softly. Gripping his cane, he limped back toward the doorway to leave. "I will speak with Miss Daubney's father and arrange for both you and Colin to relocate to London. Perhaps the doctor will be willing to allow Colin to assist him in the hospital. Put some of his reading to practical use now."

Colin looked up in surprise. "Really?"

"Why not? You have been in a similar state to Mary since the fall. Instead of worrying yourself to death and catching colds, you have been studying to the point where you walk out of the study each night stumbling and barely coherent. I have noticed, you know. Both of you are running yourself into the ground with all of your worries."

Mary looked at her cousin, startled. While she had been caught up in her own miseries, she had not even realized how their friend's absence had affected him. Colin looked away from her.

Everyone followed Archibald out of the room, leaving Mary and Colin alone.

"I'm sorry for what I said," Colin told her, his face still drawn tight after hearing what his father said. He did not think he had noticed and worried now that he was causing his father to become agitated by acting the way he had been behaving. It was not good for his health to be so. Colin would have to be more careful. He had thrown himself wholeheartedly into his studies. He could start school to be a doctor in less than a year once he turned seventeen. They were needed now to aid the wounded men coming home and replace the ones who had been lost to the war and he was just as fit as any other man to take on the task. He had to be prepared.

A sniffle brought him back to Mary's room. She had sat down on the bed, head bowed and fingers fidgeting together. She was crying.

"Mary?" He asked, stepping toward her and reaching out, but pausing and leaving his arm to hand awkwardly between them. She seemed very closed off.

Mary let out a small sob. "I feel as if I could loose him any moment. That's why I wanted to go. I need to do something. I need to be there. He has always been there for us and we are just leaving him out there all alone. What if he..."

Colin sat on the bed beside her and gathered her in his arms and stroked her back as she trailed off with a small sob. "It won't happen, Mary. Not to Dickon."

"You don't know that," she moaned despairingly. "He could be gone right now and we'd never know it."

Colin rocked his cousin back and forth as he rested his chin on her head. He worried about the same thing. Dickon was his most faithful friend and he grew increasingly more concerned about the lack of communication from him. Both he and Mary had sent many letters and none ever received an answer. He did not even know where the other man was.

"You'd know, Mary. We'd both feel it. He's alive as you or me," he whispered in her ear as her body shook with the intensity of her sobs.

The words startled her. There was no way Colin could know Dickon had said nearly the exact same thing when they first met; that the gray and brown world around her was wick and teeming with life under all of the colorless hold of winter. There was still life in this world even though they were in bleak days. The tears streaming down her face slowed to a halt and dried and she caught her breath again. Dickon would never be ashamed of her for acting the way she had, but _she_ would be shamed to tell him of her recent behavior. What would he think of her? Half lying on the ground and crying over something that had not even come to pass. No doubt she looked a right mess. This silliness and driving herself into weakened, sickly states would have to stop. When Dickon returned, she would not want to tell him how awful she had been, how much she had been avoiding normal life. And her garden. She would have to return to the garden.

It was decided that they would travel to London in the spring, around April. Until then, Master Craven had come upon a way to keep both of them distracted. Guests. An endless parade of them. It worked. Colin had people to interact with and draw him away from his books and Mary became noticeably more animated for their guests, sliding into the roll of lady of the house with ease.

"My mother was an excellent hostess, Uncle Archie. She taught me little else of use, but I do recall watching her at the parties from the balconies," she told him when he commented on it after their guests and Colin had all turned in for the night and they were sitting in one of the lounges on the first floor. "It is rather exhausting though."

"My Lilias loved your mother's parties. She was the quieter of the two, but she loved beautiful things." Her uncle hardly ever spoke of Colin's mother, but Mary had a feeling he thought of her almost as often as he took a breath.

"It is fitting then that she married you and not my father. My parents were perfect match for each other. Selfish and cold," Mary told him, a sour look coming across her face. There were days when she did not even remember them and others when she hated them more than she had even as a child. Her uncle and Mrs. Sowerby had taught her what caring parents were like and it made her resent her own even more.

Master Craven shook his head and reclined back in his chair, his expression becoming thoughtful. "She was not always so. Once, she was happy and content. I think losing Lilias changed her. Tragedy can do that to people. I became a recluse and your mother indulged in the one thing that she knew her sister enjoyed the most during their time together. It was a fault to both she and I that we held our love back from our children because of it. She and Lilias were so happy when they found out they were both expecting. Your mother was still in England at the time and they had so many plans for the two of you. When Lilias died, I think your mother lost a little bit of her capacity to love. As I did, I suppose. She left for India with your father within the month and had you not long after. She never asked after Colin. I do not know who she blamed for Lilius' death more, me or him. If they were alive, they would both be very happy that you two are so close now."

Mary remained silent and too settled back in her chair. If the it was true that her mother really had become the overindulgent creature that she remembered after the loss of her beloved sister, she wondered what she had been like before. Mary felt robbed somehow. Her mother had never struck her as capable of loving anything besides herself. Maybe it had all been a ruse. The same way she had used her shrill voice and authority to cover her painfully miserable childhood and push everyone away. Maybe her mother was not selfish or cold, but heartbroken and did not want to let anyone close enough to feel that pain again. To feel love ripped away without warning.

That night, wails filled the halls of the manor. Not the pathetic whines of a spoiled child, but bone-chilling cries of anguish that echoed through each corridor.

Miss Daubney rushed into Mary's room with Mrs. Medlock just as Colin entered through the small door behind the tapestry. The girl was sitting straight up in bed clutching her chest and crying as Martha tried to console her.

"Dickon. Oh, my Dickon." She wept as she rocked back and forth.

Colin sat down beside her and shook her shoulders. "Mary! Mary! Wake up!"

She shook her head and continued the sob. She was not dreaming. "He's gone. I feel it Colin. Like you said. He's-he's gone."

Colin's hands fell lifelessly from her shoulders and he turned to Martha and Medlock. The younger servant had paled and backed away to lean against a table for support. The housekeeper on the other hand was charging toward the cousins. She laid a resounding smack across Mary's face, stopping her sobs with a sharp hiccup.

"I won't hear of anymore of this nonsense, child. You had a terrible dream and no more. You are upsetting everyone in the house by carrying on about it," she snapped harshly at the girl.

Mary shook her head, holding her cheek. "But I wasn't having a bad dream. It was beautiful. Like before the war."

The others were at a loss. Eventually, Colin shooed the maid out and Mrs. Medlock took a sober, trembling Martha back down to the servant's quarters.

"Don't you feel it Colin?" Mary whispered as she tucked herself against her cousin. "Don't you?"

His dreams had not been pleasant and beautiful. They had been dark and he had been older. There was nothing he could have done to save the man in front of him as the blood poured out of jagged holes in his abdomen. When the screams woke him, there had been a moment when he thought they were his own.

"No, Mary," he lied. "I don't feel anything."

Their guests were ignored after that night. Medlock took over the arrangements once again and Master Craven watched helplessly as his children ambled listlessly through the manor as if being guided by a puppet master on strings. Books were abandoned and meals were left uneaten. It was worse than ever before.

Two weeks later, Mary sat beside Colin on his bed, looking out his large window at the gray rain as it fell in sheets across the moor. Spring would be there soon, but it felt as if the whole world were crying at that moment. Crying for them all. They had not heard any news yet, but they could both feel it. Something was coming and it did not feel quite right.

It was unfair.

They had not asked for the war. Dickon was not supposed to ever leave the moor. Mary and Colin's lives were supposed to be happy now. The family in Twaite should not have lost their son.

The longer Mary sat there, the more her grief turned into anger and then the anger began to morph into something else that was alive and flexing just under her skin. It felt like a sudden jolt had gone through her and her misery was eradicated from her very blood.

Grabbing Colin's hand, she tugged him out of bed and threw his boots at him along with a cape and hat. They were going out.

She stopped by her room long enough to find her gardening boots and a wool coat.

"Mary, where are we going?" His voice was tired.

"The garden. Where else?" She snipped at him, the new feeling still teeming inside her. They had to go to the garden.

Colin blinked at her and then looked out the window of her room. "But it's raining."

"I'm aware," she retorted, tugging on one boot and then the other as she marched down the hall. They were ignored by the servants in the kitchen as they hurried out the back door. The two had been so lifeless the past few weeks that they hardly recognized their young master and mistress moving at such a speed.

Colin had to sprint to keep up with his cousin. He did not know what had gotten into her, but there was some kind of warmth that had returned to her skin and he was beginning to feel it to. Mary burst into the garden and kept running until she was standing under the small stone structure so tightly covered in vines on top that the rain did not leak through. He watched her as she stood panting to catch her breath and then a small bit of pink caught his eye. A rose. The roses were finally blooming. The Magic was returning.

"Mary, look," he pointed to it, staring wonderingly at it. Mary had been weeding and clearing since February, but nothing had been growing. Now, nestled in the viney branches of the climbing roses that spun around the columns, was one perfectly pink entire garden was coming back to life. His cousin cupped it in her hands and brought her face to it, inhaling the scent, then kissed the soft petals. She started smiling. The first real smile he had seen from her in a long, long time. Since Dickon left. He started grinning too. She let go of the rose and spun away with her arms outstretched and twirled until she was in the rain again.

"Mary?" He called to her, standing at the edge of the dry spot.

"Dance with me, Colin," she ordered, spinning and laughing. Stepping out, he joined her. They danced. They chanted. They screamed. They laughed. And they hoped. That was the feeling Mary had suddenly felt. Hope.

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><p>AN: Please review! I really want to know what you guys think about this, even if it is just a quick "good" or "bad." Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This week Dickon is back and feels very out of place.

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

It was dark when Dickon started awake. He was lying down and the air around him smelled wrong. No dirt. No gunsmoke. He started to panic and tried to sit up, but something was holding him down. It felt like it was trapping all of him, had him captured. He was nearly whimpering when a light flared over him and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the burning pain it caused.

"Calm down." An arm clamped down over his chest and he felt like screaming, but could not seem to get the breath for it. "You are in Fourth General Hospital in London. At King's College."

Those were names he recognized. He knew men who had gone there and come back to the front. He began to calm down and the light moved away from his face. Cracking his eyes open, he saw a man in a crisp white shirt standing over him. His glasses were slipping down his nose and his mouth was partially skewed by a thick brown mustache. "Can you give me your name?"

"Dickon Sowerby." If he truly was in London, they would be able to find out the rest of his information. He tried to sit up again, pushing aside the sheet that had tangled up around him, but was immediately stricken by intense pain in his chest and abdomen. A flash of memory flared up. Dirt flying. Men yelling. The ground shaking and caving in near them as wood and metal and barbed wire flew through the air. He shut it down as quickly as he could.

"Cracked a few ribs and had to have some metal bits pulled out of you. Your knee's busted up and you were burned by the explosion, but your eyes should have recovered." The doctor delivered the news clinically and was a tired voice, like he had said much worse on a daily basis. He probably had, Dickon thought.

He blinked at the doctor. He was a bit blurry, but came into focus when he tried harder. "My eyes?"

The doctor nodded. "You were temporarily flash blinded. You stepped in front of the other boys beside you. One lost an arm from the shrapnel, but you took the brunt of it."

"They are alive?" He asked weakly, it was becoming difficult to even talk he was so exhausted. "All of them?"

"From what I heard," the doctor said. "Not always the most accurate information, but usually close enough to the truth."

Dickon swallowed. The boys in his unit were all like himself, misplaced. They were scholars and workers and miners. They were not soldiers. Many had already lost family and friends to the war. He could not bear any of them losing their lives. He would have to go back. "When can I leave?"

"Leave?" The doctor seemed confounded. "Son, it will be a miracle if you can even walk. You aren't leaving any time soon."

"I mun back," he urged. The dirt covered faces of his comrades came up in his mind. Allen would need him to wake him up everyday and John would need someone to play cards with when his hands got shaky and Dickon needed them. He needed to care for something.

The doctor shook his head and sighed. He opened his mouth to speak several times, but snapped it shut each time before he finally gave up and pulled the blanket off of Dickon's waist and legs. He stared in horror at the large bandage that covered his left knee. Without words, the doctor started to unwrap it. As the layers came away, they became redder and redder with his blood.

"Stop," he whispered, cringing at the sight.

"I need to change them anyway. My nurse usually does, but she has several other boys in here to attend to." He kept unbinding the wound and when the last of the wrap came away, Dickon nearly choked. His knee looked like it had been chewed on and the smell was dreadful. "Infection. The dirt from the trenches gets in and we have a hard time keeping it at bay. If it starts to infect your blood, we will have to amputate your leg."

Dickon closed his eyes again. Missing limbs and nightmares. The other men in the trenches, the ones who had made it the longest, told them that was what they needed to hope for. He was just another soldier going home with the legacy of war.

"Your bones are all still in the right places. The muscle damage is what will impair you the most." The doctor dabbed at the wound as he spoke, taking away some of the red stain of blood. It was sickening to watch the white cloth turn pink then darken into red. "You'll be here for awhile I'm afraid, Private."

The doctor started to redress his wound and moved on to the one at his ribs. Dickon lay motionless on the bed. Speaking seemed like it would take too much energy. He stared at the ceiling as he felt small spikes of pain every time the doctor made a prod here or there. He could not go back. He would not be able to take care of the others.

Mary. He would have to return to Mary. Telling her what he had seen seemed somehow forbidden and tainting. He could not poison her with what lay in his memories. He clenched his jaw shut and blinked away the cool wetness at the corner of his eyes. Returning home would be worse than going back to the muck of the battlefield. He remembered the way Mary and Colin had listened to the war news almost religiously. She would want to know everything. Things he could not bear to tell her.

Slowly, over the next weeks, his flesh began to heal. His leg would not have to be amputated, but he was as weak as a little lamb. Could barely walk further than Colin had the first time he tried. It felt wrong. He had always been the strong one and being nearly helpless was murder to his confidence.

He lived in isolation in the ward, only seeing doctors and nurses and the occasional volunteer. They spoke to him in soft, happy voices. Some spoke Yorkshire, like he did. He hated it. It reminded him too much of home and Misseltwaite and the times when Mary would lapse into the broad speak to make him laugh. He avoided everyone else in the ward like they had the plague. Even looking at the other soldiers there reminded him that he was failing his friends that were still in France.

Then one day, almost a month and a half into his stay, he hobbled into the courtyard on his crutches and there was Colin, standing tall as he carried a small boy on his shoulders. They caught sight of each other at the same time and froze.

The boy on Colin's shoulders beat on his head, attempting to make his horse go faster. Colin lifted him down and quietly told him to go back to the ward with a nurse who was standing nearby. "Dickon?"

Dickon stood stiffly, his hand gripping the crutch to stop it from shaking. "What art tha doin' 'ere, Master Colin?"

"Mary and I have been in London nearly two months. She works at the orphanage near my father's town home and I volunteer here with Miss Daubney's father. Mostly in the children's ward." Colin approached him slowly, like he would approach an injured animal on the moor, like Dickon himself had taught him. He pushed the thought away. Best not think of home.

Dickon did not try to take a step. There was still a chance his leg would give out and he would fall. "Miss Mary is 'ere? In London?"

Colin nodded. "We weren't doing too well at home with nothing to do but worry about you, so they sent us here to keep us distracted. How long have you been here? Why haven't you written home?"

Martha was with them in London, but kept in regular contact with her mother and older siblings. She would have told them if she had heard any news.

Dickon couldn't shrug. His ribs were still sore. He just remained silent.

"How long have you been here?" The other boy finally asked when he realized Dickon was not going to say anything.

That Dickon could answer. "A month and a half. Spent two weeks before that in a field hospital in France."

"That's about right," Colin said, almost to himself more than to Dickon.

Dickon gave him a confused look. He had no idea what he was talking about.

"Mary woke up screaming about two months ago. She thought you were dead. Then about two weeks later, the garden started blooming again." Colin had a strange smile on his face.

The garden. Memories from the garden had keep him sane during the worst days. Thoughts of digging in the cool earth and watching life grow from it, of watching the magic blossom out of the green leaves and colors in the flowers, of laying in the sun by Mary as they laughed and talked and reveled in the comfortable nearness of each other. He turned away from Colin and walked, hobbled, back to his ward.

"Dickon?" Colin came after him, catching up in a few long strides.

He stopped and looked just past Colin's shoulder as he said, "Don' tha tell Miss Mary I am 'ere, Master Colin. Please?"

"What? She has been worried sick about you since you left. I am not just going to-"

Dickon cut him off. "I know. She 'as aye worried so. Bu' I can' let her see me now. No' like this. I don'...I can', Master Colin. She wouldn'...she would-"

"What? Pity you? Have you ever known Mary to pity anyone? I was ten years old and bedridden and all I got from her was hostile words and impertinence. No doubt she would treat you the same," Colin said, his face curving into a small smile. "She is very consistent in her treatment, if nothing else."

But Mary had never treated Dickon that way. She had always been shy and quiet around him and then, once they were good friends, carefree and soft spoken. She saved her harsh words for others. They had never been directed at him.

"Do no' tell her," he repeated finally and then opened the door to his ward and limped in, letting it slam closed behind him, no doubt leaving a shocked Colin Craven on the other side.

The other boy did not leave him alone though. If he was going to keep his secret, Dickon would have to put up with his company, he said. Dickon did not mind Colin being there so much as much as the thought of Mary walking through the door did.

The doctor in charge of his care turned out to be Mary's governess' father and the two boys had to swear him to secrecy. Colin was still not entirely sure why, but it seemed important to Dickon that Mary not know he was there or of his condition. He came because Dickon needed someone, needed the encouraging words just as he had when he was first learning to walk. They avoided conversations of his cousin and everything was fine.

Doctor Daubney told Colin that Dickon nearly had not made it off the battlefield in France. He had been at the Somme in March when the Germans had broken through. He'd saved seven of the boys in his unit by shielding them from a shell blast that had taken out five other men. Of course, Dickon did not mention any of that. He never spoke of the war.

Their secret carried on for just over three weeks. Colin, Dickon, and Doctor Daubney were gathered around Dickon's bed, examining the ridged scar tissue on his arms when Mary burst through the door.

"Doctor, I have-" her voice died.

There was Dickon Sowerby, alive, sitting on the bed as her cousin stood next to him. Her heart soared for a moment before she caught the nervous looks on all three men's faces. Colin looked away when she turned her gaze on him. He had not just found Dickon, but had known. Dickon himself had his jaw clenched and was not looking in her direction. The haphazard curls that had always haloed his head were shorn off and shorter than Colin's. His left leg was bandaged at the knee and his arm and shoulder that faced her were covered in scars, caused by burns and shrapnel from the look of them. His arm covered most of his torso, but since his shirt was off, she could see the deep bruising and scaring around his ribs as well. He still was not looking at her.

So be it then.

She gathered herself up and shifted to address the doctor, who had placed himself between her and the other two men. "Mrs. Pemberton needs you at the orphanage. Several of the boys have gotten into a scrap and a few need to be checked over. I patched them up as best I could, but there are still a few that are beyond my care."

"Thank you, Mary, I will follow you over." He glanced back between Dickon and Colin and then to Mary before holding the door open for the latter and shaking his head. He was not involving himself in whatever was going on.

Mary turned on her heel and started through the door. Just before the doctor made to follow her out, she looked over her shoulder and in a cheerful tone, said, "Oh, and Dickon? Happy Birthday."

Then she left without waiting to see if the doctor would follow her. She made it all the way to his motorcar before her resolve broke.

"Why didn't they tell me?" She asked him, pressing her gloved hand to her trembling mouth.

"Sometimes, soldiers do not want to see their families when they come back. They feel disconnected or afraid to tell them about the things they had to do. They feel out of place," the doctor told her.

She shook her head and tried not to cry. Dickon had never been out of place anywhere.

Ignoring Colin was the easiest part of the next week. She stayed away from her uncle's house at times she knew he would be there and took the room that Mrs. Pemberton had first offered her when she came to help at the orphanage. The boys kept her quite busy, but even they had started avoiding her when her anger began to get the best of her. Finally, Colin knocked on her door late one night after she had finished tucking all of the younger boys in for the night and was brushing her hair before turning in herself.

"What do you want?" She asked him, leaning against the doorframe, feeling the heaviness of the hairbrush in her hand. Hitting him with it would be satisfying.

Colin rolled his eyes at her peevishness. "I convinced him to come back to Misselthwaite."

"Good. I will see you both in a few months then," she snapped and attempted to close the door.

Colin stopped it with his foot. "He's...lost. I don't think he knows quite who he is anymore and he didn't want you to see that."

"He's my best friend besides you and neither of you thought I should know that he wasn't dead?" Her anger had been simmering for a week and it had not dissipated in the slightest. No small excuse was going to placate her. "I don't care if he didn't want me to see him in the hospital. But I would have at least liked to have known."

"We all know that you would never have stayed away. Just come back with us, Mary. Like I said, he's just so lost," he pleaded with her. She shook her head. How could they expect her to after lying to her? They were mad. Colin sighed and whispered, "He cried after you left, Mary. He cried."

The ride back to Misselthwaite was awkward.

Mary sat in the front seat of the motorcar with her uncle's driver and refused to looked back at Colin or Dickon. She watched the green moors in the distance approach them and felt the same lonely feeling she had the first time she had made the journey. Dickon had returned and it was nothing like she had anticipated.

When they arrived at the manor, she let herself out of the car, oversaw the unloading of her luggage and then went into the house without talking to either of the boys. She was halfway up the staircase when she happened to catch a glance of the foyer below as she turned up another flight.

Dickon stood, slightly listed to one side to keep his weight off of his knee, and looked around apprehensively. His body was stiff and, Mary thought, if he could run, he would have. She realized for the first time what Colin meant. He looked lost, out of place.

"Dickon?" She called down. He flinched slightly and looked up at her. "Mrs. Medlock prepared your room for you. I'll wait for you to come up."

She left him to take the staircase on his own. She had noticed he had been careful not to let her see him walk when they had left London and figured he would not want her watching his trek up the stairs either.

When he made it to his room, she was waiting in his room. When he saw her sitting there, he jumped and then stumbled slightly.

"I'm sorry!" She sprung up from the bed and went to him. Stopping just short of touching him, she shifted slightly, unsure of what to do. She knew he did not want her help. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Tha didn', I jus' wasn' expectin' tha t' be here," he told her, fighting to keep his voice steady. She had more than startled him. He nearly ran, but his leg held him back.

Mary bite her lip and backed away from the door so that he could come in. He was like frightened animal that had been trapped, she realized.

"Master Colin insists that I stay here 'til my leg is a bit stronger, but I don' wan' t' burden tha'," he said as he hobbled in and sat down on one of the chairs before she could turn around from closing the door. "I have already decided t' go back home with Martha nex' time she goes."

"Why? You aren't a burden to any of us," Mary told him, astonished that he would ever think such a thing. She searched his downcast face, taking in the gray look to it and the stubble on his cheeks. When he had left, he'd barely been able to grow a beard. He'd changed, she realized, and more than just physically, too. The glow that had always been in his eyes was gone, replaced by the same haunted look she saw in the boys at the orphanage. "Honestly, have you ever known either Colin or I to hide the truth? We are exceptionally both blunt. It's one of our better qualities."

Dickon huffed a strangled laugh. "I can barely walk, Miss Mary."

"What does that have to do with anything? Colin couldn't walk at all when we first met. You are my best friend, Dickon. Why wouldn't I want to help you?" She asked him, her brows knitting tightly together.

He could not bring himself to tell her that he did not want her help. That he just wanted her to leave him be and move on with her own life. She would be looking to marry soon and a man hidden in her side corridor would no doubt deter suitors. He would be a burden whether she thought so or not. He should have never listened to Colin. They would have let him stay at the hospital until he was healed enough to search for a job away from the manor. The thought had nearly broken his heart. He loved the moors and the gardens around Misselthwaite. They were more than home; they were his lifeblood. But he also felt that there was a kind of black poison coursing through him. He was afraid he would contaminate everything he touched.

"You belong here," she told him gently before unceremoniously unpacking his bag for him while he watched her silently.

Mary ordered him to have tea with her one day and he had begrudgingly accepted. She was already waiting for him when he arrived, sitting with her skirts pulled up and pinned so that her legs were freer. Her shoes were sitting on the ground between her chair and the empty one beside her along with her stockings. Dickon swallowed. He had seen Mary's legs before, but that had been so long ago, when they were children. The smooth skin reminded him of the pictures the other lads in the trenches carried with them. He never showed them the one he carried. The one of two happy children in a garden. They would never have understood the magic in it, understood why it made him happier than a half-naked woman could. He waited until the others were distracted or asleep to pull it out to run his hand along the line of the swing's rope then over Mary's hair. The image had kept him alive some days, just knowing that magic had existed and was waiting for him. Then he had returned feeling like a black mark. He had yet to see the garden.

"Oh, how long have you been there?" Mary asked, jolting him out of his thoughts. He still had a couple of steps to go, but she was facing him now. Stiffening his spine, he limped over in full view of her.

Mary did not comment. He had been very meticulous in making sure she did not see him walk. It was like a game he was playing, like the boys at the orphanage who would freeze when she looked at them and the scramble away to another spot when she turned away. She put a mental check on her side of her scoreboard.

Tea on the terrace became a daily thing. If it rained, they sat in the kitchen by the windows. Mary always made sure she was there first and facing the door. The tense look he had every time she saw him walking slowly began to disappear and then one day it was gone completely. He was opening up to her again, becoming comfortable. She felt elated. His pallor was becoming less gray and had settled into just pale.

Dickon barely spoke during these daily meetings. He was afraid of what he might say, afraid of what black memories may rise up. But Mary chattered on endlessly. It became comforting to listen to her gone on and on about the boys at her orphanage or something his brothers did while he was gone. His brothers inevitably led her to talk about what else he had missed while he was gone.

"I tried to convince Uncle to let me join an aid detachment, but he was set against it," she told him as she held her teacup in front of her mouth and stared straight ahead, waiting to see what he would say about that.

With his lips pressed in a thin line, Dickon looked out at the moor. "I'm glad he wouldn' let tha go. 'Tis no' a thing t' be seen, war."

"All the dying, you mean? People regularly dropped dead in India. I've seen my share of it." That was not completely true. She had seen three of the servants die. One by heat exhaustion, one by a rampaging elephant, and the last from a knife fight. She had watched each with a kind of cold detachment. They had only been servants, barely human to her then.

Dickon shook his head and flexed his hands against each other. "It wasn' the normal kin' of dyin'. T'was th' open an' raw kin' that splattered bits o' people all over."

He had been in the trenches a week when he'd seen his first death. The man was a year older than he was and he'd never even spoken to him, but the fear that he had felt since boarding the train had risen abruptly. He'd vomited all over the wall of the trench when he looked at the man's blank, staring eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dickon," Mary said, bringing him back to Misselthwaite and the terrace.

Dickon swallowed and looked down at his hands. "Som'time I would look down a' my hands an' think th' darkness on 'em weren' but dirt from our garden. Then th' light would catch them an' I could see th' blood of boys jus' liken m'self. All grimy an' red. I-um...a lad I knew there...he couldn' stand i' anymore an'...he's gone now."

Mary watched his face take on a far away and painful look and regretted bringing up the subject in the first place. She could see him regressing before her eyes.

Reaching over, she covered his hands with her own. "He didn't have me, Dickon...or our garden."

She wished he would at least try to go to the garden. She and Colin had been busy tending it since their return from London. It had been a mess since she had let it go in the spring and Ben was not well enough to weed and trim it everyday. The result was an overabundance of roses and greenery. It looked wild and free. Not trapped and timid, like Dickon.

"You should see it. There are roses everywhere and Colin put new rope on the swing. It broke in a storm over the winter. I think you would feel better if you went out there." She ducked her head. She had not meant to go that far. The subject of his recovery was stringently avoided by everyone in the manor. Dickon's leg was fine and his ribs were fine and his head was fine. It was as if everyone lived in a dream world and was giving their best attempt to make it a reality. The only person she spoke to seriously about Dickon was Colin. Even Martha was in a fantasy land, just grinning and happy that they had her brother back.

Dickon rose from the chair and started to walk off the terrace. "Maybe some othe' time, Miss Mary."

She let him leave and sniffed sharply to keep the tears that burned in her eyes at bay. A tick on his side of the board today, she thought. Martha came onto the terrace to take away the tea set and scones that only Mary ever ate.

"What happened to our beautiful Dickon, Martha?" She asked, her voice catching as she stared unseeing at the moor.

Martha brushed off her hands and started placing the used teacups back on the tray. "Tha means th' scars? They will fade an' a'for long tha won' be noticin' them as much."

"No," she said, shaking her head. She hardly noticed the scars that marred Dickon's arms. They were harsh and red, but they did not bother her and she did not think they bothered him. He did not try to hide them at least. "Not the scars. It's like someone took Dickon and replaced him with another soul. The war stole him. It stole my angel."

It was almost worse than him not coming back or losing him like the boy in Thwaite. He came back, but at the same time, didn't. Everyday, she hoped the rough, ruddy glow would return to his cheeks and he would smile again. He had lost something deep inside himself, she realized. It was as if he could not remember how to be the boy she knew.

After daily tea, she began walking on the moors, sometimes she took one of the horses her uncle kept on the grounds. She never told Dickon where she was going, but she would see him watching from the window in his room some days when she was returning to the house.

One afternoon in mid-July, he rose with her. "I'll go with tha, Miss Mary. If 'tis al'right?"

"Of course it is, Dickon." She smiled to herself as she walked away from him. It was the first time he had asked for something since his return. A mark for her, then. "I'm riding today. I'll have the stable master ready two. I have to put on something decent to ride in though. I will meet you there."

Leaving him, She went up to her room and changed into riding breeches and a loose linen shirt she had stolen from Colin and tugged on her riding boots. No one one the moor would care that a lady wore men's clothes. She grabbed a hat and ran down to the stables. Dickon arrived just as a stable hand was cinching the saddle on her horse. She had left Dickon's barebacked, the way he usually rode.

"Ready?" She asked, coming around her horse. She thought she saw a flit of amusement in his eyes when he saw her outfit, but it was so fast she may have imagined it. He nodded and glanced around at the ground. There was no way he would be able to mount his horse without a larger step than usual. "Climb onto the low wall of the stall."

She set the stool that they usually used by the wall and waited for him. He grit his teeth together and tried to ignore the shame he felt in needing the extra help. Using the wall helped; he was able to slide onto the horse instead of swing his leg over. Mary had chosen the calmest horse in the stables for him, one he had ridden in the past. She mounted her own horse and they left at a gentle walk.

They rode farther than she usually did. Dickon looked more content than he had all summer and she could not bring herself to turn back. They rode in silence, but it was not the same stilted quiet that they plowed through daily. It was comfortable, like they had always experienced before the war.

"Does tha 'ear that, Miss Mary?" Dickon asked suddenly, tugging his horse to a stop and cocking his head to the side. Mary listened, but did not pick up anything abnormal. "There."

He pointed off to their left where a small thatch of heather added color to the sprawling green around them. Without waiting for Mary, he nudged his horse in that direction. Mary followed, sliding off her horse when he did. She was not entirely sure how he would get back on, but pushed that out of her mind to watch him limp without his crutch toward the short bushes. Now that they were closer, she could hear a tiny bleat.

"What is it, Dickon?" She asked, stepping lightly behind him so that she could peer over her shoulder.

He held up a hand, stilling her. "Shh."

They both jumped when a lamb stumbled out toward them. Mary laughed and started toward the animal.

"I think there's an'other. I can 'ear it movin' a'round." He pushed the heather aside.

Blood. The ground was covered in it. The back of his hand that had touched the heather was streaked. He was choking. The burn of sulphur filled his nose. The noise was so loud and he was trying to keep his hands pressed firm, but there was still red, red blood welling up between his fingers. Mortors were still landing in deafening blasts around him. His throat was raw from the force of his screams as he called for a stretcher bearer. The breath from the chest he was pressing on was coming in rattling gasps that seemed louder than any gunfire. He looked up at to see who it was under the dirt and grime and-

"Dickon?" Sowerby. They called him by his last name. He jerked back, swinging at the hand on his shoulder. Stumbling, he fell on his backside heavily and saw the little lamb take off. Mary dove for it and caught onto its back leg. She pulled it to her chest as she turned back to him with wide eyes. "What happened?"

He did not answer her, but took hard, heaving breaths, trying to fill his lungs. It made his still sore ribs hurt, but the need for air was greater than the pain.

Mary tucked the lamb under one arm and kneeled by the bush he had been looking under. Another lamb lay squirming, its hind leg mangled and torn. Another animal must have attacked it.

"Here, Dickon." She pushed the lamb she was holding into his arms without asking and tore a strip of cloth from her shirt tail. Carefully, cooing slightly as she went, her hands settled on the lamb and she felt its fluttering heartbeat. "There, there. It's all right. You're all right now. That's it. Calm down, love."

Dickon latched onto her voice. He was on the moor. He was all right. He was fine. He was alive.

Quickly and efficiently, Mary wrapped the injured leg up and tucked the lamb carefully in her arms. Dickon was still sitting behind her, the lamb held awkwardly in his arms. The animal looked as on edge as he did.

"What happened?" She asked him, taking the lamb from him so he could rise. He shook his head and struggled across the uneven ground to his horse.

Mary managed to help Dickon back on his horse after finding a fallen tree to use as a step, his usual pale cheeks flaming and mounted her own with the injured lamb in her arms. She forced Dickon to carry the other, though it was abundantly clear he would rather have left both of them to Mary.

He had nearly scared it away. Dickon had never scared an animal in his life. If it had gotten away from Mary, whatever had gotten its' sister would most likely have taken advantage of it running across the open grassland. This was the reason he did not need to be there. He could not exist with the good of the land anymore. It felt like the growing things were rejecting him.

"Come on, we need to get this one back. There are bandages in the garden shed," Mary urged him when he began to lag behind. Mary did not turn back to the house, but diverted through the dirt paths along the back of the gardens. She saw Dickon tense when he realized where their route would take them. She did not give him the option of leaving and, after she had tied her hair ribbon to her horses saddle and slapped its rump to send it home, she stood in the way so that he could not follow it. Taking the lamb from him, she let him fumble his way off his horse while she looked away and waited until she heard the soft smack before going into the garden.

Setting the healthy lamb down on the path, she took the hurt one to the shallow pond to in the center of the garden. She could hear Dickon moving, but ignored him in favor of cleaning the lamb's leg with another scrap from her shirt and the water from the pond. The wounds were shallow and would heal quickly, she decided. She retrieved a small bandage from the garden shed in the corner and wrapped it back up and laid it down by its brother. Satisfied with her work, she turned to the man who was sitting on the stump in the far corner of the garden folded in on himself with his head hung and elbows on his knees.

"Dickon?" She queried, taking tentative steps toward him. He looked defeated.

"I've forgotten, Miss Mary," he choked out, his his hands hanging between his knees shaking violently. "I canno' remember how to be a bird or a fox or a squirrel. I canno' remember how to be anything else. I'm just a man."

Mary cut the distance between them and gently pulled him to her. He pressed his face into her stomach with a soft whine from the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around her hips. She could feel him sobbing quietly. She shushed him softly and ran her hand over his short hair. They stayed that way for a long time and, even though it was breaking her heart, she had to count the situation as a point on her side because it was the first time he had welcomed her touch since coming home.

They did not mention what had happened to Colin. Mary smuggled both lambs into the manor and set them up in the corner of her room. When her cousin noticed them, she just said that she had found them alone on the moor. Dickon did not ask to go out on the moor again and she spent most of her time caring for her new charges, forcing him to help at times. Feeding did not go well the first time. The ease in which he had always had with the animals had vanished.

It made him angry. It made him try harder.

Mary was always touching him now too. Light caresses on his shoulder when she arrived for daily tea, later now than usual. A soft hand on his when they were sitting side by side in the dirt of the garden after she forced him to go back. Bracing his arm as they walked to and from the garden each day even though he had started to get strong and did not need it. Leaning against him as they sat on a sofa in the study listening to Colin talk about something he had read and what did they think about it? He began to crave her touch as much as he had once repelled it. She was returning the magic. He smiled slightly at the thought and leaned his head on top of hers.

Mary shared a triumphant look with her cousin as he continued to talk to them. She was winning and the buzzing feeling of hope was returning to them all.

Master Craven started entertaining guests again as the summer began to cool. He had avoided bringing anyone to the manor while Dickon was still so far out of sorts, but now that he seemed stronger, there were some business dealings that he had been putting off that he absolutely had to do in person.

Mary once again transformed into a proper lady of the house. It amazed Dickon as much as it disturbed him. She was comfortable anywhere now, it seemed. Startled, he realized that he had once been the same way. When he tried to think about that harder, scorching memories rose in his mind. Yes, that was what had happened. He belonged now, but still felt set apart.

While he was not overly comfortable being in the presence of the guests, Lord Hutchinson and his wife and son, he did not feel like he should run and hide. Mary would call that progress, he thought. He answered questions and spoke about plants and seasons and the moor and no one mentioned his injury or asked how he had come by it.

As dessert was swept off the table at dinner, he turned to Mary and cleared his throat a bit. She leaned toward him to listen.

"My knee is hurtin' somethin' awful, Miss Mary. I think I mun go before it stiffens up completely," he told her so softly she could barely hear it. He hated that he must leave in front of all of the Craven's guests, but it was that or be unable to move his leg.

"Oh, of course, why did you not say something earlier?" She asked, laying a hand on his arm. For the first time, she noticed the white knuckle grip he had on the armrest.

"I did enjoy seein' tha play lady." He smirked at her and she giggled. He rose from his chair and limped heavily toward the door. He had left his crutch in his room in favor of not letting the guest see him with it and regretted by the time he was two steps away from the table.

"It is pleasant to see you extending your hand a cripple. It is all something we should do more often," Lady Hutchinson babbled to Archibald at the head of the table.

Mary and Colin bristled at the word. Dickon's steps faltered and Colin jumped out of his seat to brace his arm. "I will walk you to you room Dickon. I do not think the air in this room is agreeing with me." He said it loudly enough for the entire room to hear.

Mary watched them walk out and tried to ease her rising temper. "Dickon is not here because he is crippled. If you cannot accept that he is only here because he is our very dear friend, you may leave."

The woman balked at the suggestion. Mary could be a proper lady or a humble volunteer in an orphanage, but she would always be the little girl from India who could issue a subtle and scathing threat with nothing but a change of tone. It was clear to everyone in the room that the woman was no longer welcome at Misselthwaite Manor.

"I think I must also excuse myself before I lose my temper," Mary stated to no one in particular before standing abruptly and following her cousin and Dickon out of the room.

Guests, Archibald Craven decided, were a bad idea.

Mary let herself into Dickon's room after she changed out of her fine dinner dress and put on a more comfortable everyday dress. He was sitting at the foot of his bed removing his shoes when she came in.

"Are you all right?" She asked him, standing in the space in front of his bed.

Dickon nodded. "Aye."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She licked her lips and hoped the question did not sound as inelegant as it felt coming off of her lips.

Dickon shook his head. "No."

"Will you at least look at me?" She finally harped, instantly regretting her tone. Dickon's head snapped up. His eyes were guarded. As guarded as they were when she walked in on him, Doctor Daubney, and Colin in the infirmary in London. She had to fix it. "Stay with me tonight in the garden. Like we did as children? Colin can even perform magic like he did then."

"Tha' wouldn' be proper, Miss Mary," Dickon told her, his voice quiet and reserved. "Tha are a grown lady an' people would be whisperin' abou' it come morrow."

"What people, Dickon?" Mary wondered when Dickon started to listen to what other people said.

"Martha hears every'thin the other maids an' gardeners are sayin' about th' two of us. I don' mind so much, but I don' wan' t' sully your reputation for a bit o' fun. A servant should not be so friendly with th' mistress o' th' Manor. It is my fault that-"

Mary interrupted him, her voice haughty. "I don't care what they have to say about me."

"Bu' I do," he exclaimed, the urgency in his eyes quieting any fight that was building in Mary. He bowed his head again and began to untie his other shoe. "I have been playin' a fool to be so friendly with thee all these year."

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. He was being stubborn. She dropped her hand and lifted his chin up so that he had to look at her. "Dickon, meet me in the garden at midnight. If you aren't there, I won't hold it against you, but please?"

Then she left, stopping to get the thick wool blanket they took with them to the garden when it may be chilly and putting on a coat before making her way out to the garden. She realized halfway out that she had forgotten to invite Colin, but turning back might mean missing Dickon if he did decide to come.

It was well after midnight when she heard the door creak open. From her spot laying by the small fire she had built, she could just make out his features in the moonlight. His shoulders were slumped and he was favoring his good leg heavily. She should not have made him come when his knee was giving him so much trouble.

He limped over and sat down on the blanket beside her, straightening out his knee with a hiss. "I should not have asked you to come."

"Well, tha did an' I'm 'ere," he retorted astringently, laying back.

"I'm sorry," she told him as he shifted around uncomfortably before finally stilling.

They lay like that for a long time before he finally spoke. "Are they right?

"About what?" Mary asked, turning her head so that she could see him. He was looking up at the moon, his face drawn and shadowed by the firelight.

"Does tha think I am cripple?" He asked, his voice wavering slightly.

Mary laughed. "What a preposterous idea! That old windbag was full of hot air. Can't accept that the old lines are breaking and muddling her idea of gentry."

The frown did not ease from his face. She rolled up on her elbow and leaned over him. "You're no more of a cripple than Colin ever was. It's all in the mind. Their minds. You are strong and gentle and perfect. No war, no scars, no old woman with antiquated ideas will ever change that."

Dickon shook his head. "Bu' I'm not strong, Mary. The garden can' heal me like it did Colin. This can' be fixed."

"Yes you are. You are the absolute strongest person I have ever known. Including you mother," she told him. "And when was Colin ever strong before he came here? Now look at him. I've read all the medical journals in our library and not one suggests he should have ever been able to make that recovery. His muscles were too wasted. But this place, the two of us, we made him stronger. We draw strength from everything around us, Dickon. From beauty and love. Just because you are hurt, does not make you a cripple. Not the way I see it at least."

Dickon remained silent, but gave her a minute nod. If she did not believe he was a cripple then that was at least one thing going for him.

"Dickon," Mary said, her voice apprehensive. He turned to face her at the tone. She was looking down at the blanket, pulling a piece of grass out of the woven fabric. "Tell me about the war."

He inhaled sharply. That question was the one he had been dreading since he woke up and realized Mary would want to know about all those months he never wrote to her about. She would want to know about the dirt and the smell and the way mustard gas burned the inside of your lungs even if you inhaled just a bit of it, about the way his friends started to slowly tick down from a large group to just a handful, about the death, and the dying, and the way the bodies smelled when the wind blew across no man's land between the trenches. He could not tell her about any of that.

Her cool palm pressed against his cheek and her thumb swiped across the trail of wetness that had cut across his cheek. "It does not have to be about the bad stuff. Tell me about the boys you were with, the ones you saved. Tell me about the good things. There must have been some."

There were. There had been nights where they sang old church songs and ones where they had gathered around the lantern to eat their Christmas meal, laughing and carrying on like he was back at his mother's table and surrounded by family instead of a hodge-podge of boys he would never have known if not for the war and ones that were would not have been memorable in any other situation, but there they were. He started to tell her about those and then everything else followed. Once he started talking about it, he couldn't seem to make himself stop.

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><p>AN: Please review! I was a little unhappy with this chapter and would like to know what you guys thought about it. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This week things get better, then much worse.

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><p>Chapter 4 -<p>

Colin's sleep was fitful and unpleasant, then left him laying soberly awake at nearly an hour to dawn. Dickon would likely be up as well, he thought. While the nights had been growing fewer, he often heard Dickon walking up and down the corridor during the early morning hours in an attempt to ease the pain in his leg that came with laying motionless during sleep. He was mildly surprised when he did not run into him on the way to the other man's room. He knocked on the door and waited, frowning when it was not answered after a few moments. Quietly, he tried the handle and found it unlocked.

Dickon's room was empty, bed untouched, and coat and boots missing.

Panic swelled up rapidly as he ran to Mary's room. The potential of Dickon dying from exposure out on the moor or falling as he tried to limp all the way to his mother's cottage in Twaite terrified him. He did not think neither he nor his cousin would survive something like that happening.

Neither scenario included Mary's disappearance.

The panic of finding Dickon gone did not dissipate upon seeing only the lambs sleeping quietly in their corner of Mary's room so much as transform into gnawing worry over the two's whereabouts. His cousin had never conformed to propriety, but he did not know how his father would react upon discovering her wildly inappropriate behavior had not ended as they approached adulthood.

It was not surprising to find them in the garden, sleeping side by side, tucked under rough wool blankets beside the smoldering remains of a fire. He set down the lambs, who had started bleating almost as soon as they heard his footsteps on the wooden bedroom floor and made a nuisance of themselves until he freed them, and crouched beside Mary. He lightly touched her shoulder and hoped she would not wake Dickon or cry out. She opened her eyes, blinking at him in the darkness of the pre-dawn hour, and he put a finger to his lips, stilling the question forming on her lips. Gripping her arm, he helped her silently to her feet from the ground without disturbing the man beside her. He led her into the far reaches of the garden, out of earshot of Dickon.

"What are you doing?" He whispered harshly, rounding on her.

Mary's sleepy gaze turned steely at his tone. "I was sleeping. It is still quite early, you know."

"We have guests and you are sleeping outside with a man," Colin bit out, resisting the urge to shake her.

Mary raised an eyebrow. "You honestly care about a single thought that goes through those people's heads?"

"No, but Father does and his business will be my concern one day," he pointed out, angry at a her skewed perspective. She needed to think of more than just herself.

She crossed her arms and primly said, "I would concern myself with ending that partnership."

Colin rolled his eyes. She would be so much more enjoyable to converse with if she was not so stubborn. He started to retort, but she cut him off with a quick hand through the air.

"He told me about France," she told him, causing his mouth to snap shut. "Not all of it, but a lot."

"Better or worse than we expected?" He asked. They had spoken about it nearly anytime they were alone. Thus far, they could not determine how much of Dickon's current state stemmed from his injuries and the feeling that he had abandoned his comrade's when they needed him and how much came from the things he had seen and had to do while on the battlefield. He never spoke of the war and rarely mentioned his wounds, despite their constant hindrances.

Mary shrugged. "I asked him to tell me about the good things."

"There were some then?" He had worried that Dickon had spent seven months in complete misery with no higher moments, that there had only been dying men on dead ground with no life to bring happiness to the despair. It seemed plausible, given his state of mind in the last few months.

His cousin nodded, wrapping her arms around her ribs and looking away slightly. "Yes, but not the way we think of happy moments. Everything seemed barred on all sides by the effects of the situation. There were good moments because they were less awful than the worst ones. They formed their own little family because they were away from their own. He misses them."

Colin nodded, understanding. His childhood was full of less than bad memories that broke up the monotony of lonely nights. "Father wrote to his commanding officer a few weeks ago, but has not received a reply. I think he would rest easier knowing the others were still alive and where they are."

"And if they are not?" Mary asked incredulously, her eyes flashing back to his.

Frowning grimly, Colin looked up at the blank sky. "We don't tell him."

Mary's frown matched his and she shivered slightly in the cool air. That plan was not ideal, but she felt she must protect him if it came to that.

"He'll worry if I'm gone when he wakes," she said, rubbing her arms and walking away. Before she went around the tree that blocked the corner from the rest of the garden, she stopped and turned back to him, her chin lifting a little and her back growing straighter. "Even if he is still only a piece of himself, he is healing."

When Dickon awoke, slowly and like taking a breathe instead the harsh jerk of a nightmare, there was a small bird sitting on his chest. Its' head was cocked slightly to the side, giving him a questioning little look with its beady black eyes.

Here I am, it said, wake up and look at me.

Dickon blinked at it.

"Well, answer it," Mary ordered him. He did not start at her voice, though it did surprise him that she was still there in the garden. From the soft color of the sky, it looked as if the sun were just rising. No doubt Martha would be finding her empty bed soon.

"Hello, there," he told the robin. "Art tha' findin' the day well?"

The little bird began twittering and singing and telling him about its mate and the three little eggs it had. It was telling him about the living things.

Mary laughed beside him, a small giggle that sounded clear and easy. "Tha would agree, I think, that this be th' mos' graidely day tha've seed in ages."

"Aye," Dickon said, smiling up at her. "Tis."

The garden was cloaked in a slight misty fog, dulling the colors, and Mary sat like a vibrant beacon in the midst of it holding her little lambs and looking at him like she had when they first met. Curious and open. Not disappointed or closed off from hearing details of his life as a soldier. Graidely indeed.

"Tha' has slept right through th' lambs searchin' 'round thysen fo' a treatie. They were right curious abou' thee this mornin' after Colin brought them a'lon'. Isn' that an odd thin'?" She asked him, her eyebrow raised slightly. He smiled at her Yorkshire speak. She had not spoken to him like that in months. "They mun realize some'thin' has changed abou' thee. A cartain lightness has returned."

"Aye?" He sat up slowly, letting the little bird that was still perched on him flutter up to his shoulder.

Mary nodded. His eyes, while not as bright as they were, did not hold that same haunted emptiness they had in the past months. The grayness that had saturated his face was replaced by the the rosiness his cheeks had always had before. Yes. He was getting better.

Dickon himself felt different. It seemed as if the harsh, bloody memories were covered in the same fog that deafened the garden. They were still there, most likely they always would be, but they did not seem as urgently close as they had before. More of a distant pain, one he may be able to forget most of the time, like how he forgot sometimes that he broke his arm as a child. The memory would only surface when his arm gave ting under strain, forcing him to remember. He wished it would stay like that forever, but hope seemed like feeling he should hold at arms length.

"The cook is gatherin' up a breakfast. We'll sneak in past her an' steal some," Mary said, rising and setting down the lambs in one smooth motion. She brushed off her skirt and then held out a hand to him. He took it and rose easily.

Colin stood at the window of his father's sitting room, looking out at the garden. He could just make out his cousin and Dickon coming toward the house from the far side of the gardens.

"You are quiet this morning," his father remarked from his writing desk by the fire. "Is something bothering you?"

Colin turned toward his father and stayed silent for a moment.

"Or someone?" His father added, finally looking up from his reading.

"Dickon," he confessed, clasping his hands behind his back. "Before he always seemed like this steady unmovable force that I could lean on."

"And what does he seem like now?" Archibald had watched the three continue to maneuver around each other since they had returned to Misseltwaite, like a foreign dance they had neither learned nor wished to be a part of. He could tell they had yet to find that easy companionship they had always enjoyed. His son, he had observed, was disturbed by the reversal of positions between himself and Dickon. He had never had to be the strong one.

"Shaken," Colin answered, turning back to the window to watch Mary and Dickon wind through the kitchen gardens. "But finding his ground."

Archibald nodded and began writing again. "He did seem more comfortable with our dinner guests. Despite any unfortunate comments made over dessert."

Colin snorted. "That woman was tactless. Anyone knows it is rude to comment on another person's poor heath when they are still in the room."

"I doubt Mary will allow her back in the house," his father commented with a small smile.

Colin laughed drily. "She would not be a very charming hostess at any future visits, that's for certain. I would be surprised if there is not a squall over breakfast."

"Let's hope it does not devolve into that," Archibald said, thinking all the while that he would not mind. Lord Hutchinson had not married his wife for her wit or brains.

"Father?" Colin asked, half turning from the window.

His father looked up from the papers he was reading and hummed in acknowledgment. Colin bit the inside of his cheek and tried to center his thoughts. "Yes?"

Colin sighed. "What are you going to do about Dickon?"

Archibald laid his papers down on the table. "Do?"

His son nodded. "Yes. About he and Mary?"

"What about them?" He asked, sitting back in his chair.

"Well, they have been growing closer. Are you worried?" Colin looked back out the window. Now that the pair was closer to the house, he could see that they were walking hand in hand and laughing at the Mary's lambs, which were leaping and jumping around the couple. He heard his father rise and approach the window. The men stood together, watching Mary and Dickon.

"I do not see any reason I should be," his father said.

Colin smiled and rested a hand on his father's shoulder.

Archibald glanced at his son. He had wondered what Colin thought about his cousin's fondness for a commoner, even if the man was arguably his son's closest confidant. It was a relief to both men that neither minded the relationship's obvious blossoming.

It was the night of Mary's seventeenth birthday, after Jamie Sowerby had already came and left after visiting her and his brother and presenting her with a beautifully articulate sketch of the moor and its wee animals, that Miss Daubney approached the young woman with a crisp, folded letter and told her it was not a gift, but she did not think it could wait until the following morning. Mary spared no time in tearing the letter open and giving it a quick read before turning to the two men sitting behind her.

Dickon was laughing at something Colin was saying, deep and hearty and open. He caught her expression, tight and drawn, as she approached him. He half rose from the sofa before she was even halfway across the room. She handed him the parchment with a slight tremor in her hand. His slightly worried expression turned to something slightly panicked as he read through it and sank back down.

"I-I mun go t' London," he stuttered, his grip on the letter tearing the paper under his thumb. He turned to Master Craven. "Sir, a chap in my unit, Allen Crosby, has been injured an' is at King's College un'der Doctor Daubney's care. I mun-"

Archibald waved his hand. "Say no more. We will ready the car. Pichard!" He called for his manservant and began giving orders to prepare for the journey.

Mary and Colin gathered around Dickon, who choked on hitching breaths, his hands shaking and his face pale. Their comforting words were muted by the loud rushing sound of his blood as he fought to tamp down the thought he had been pushing aside for months. He had not been there to protect them. He had failed them.

At nearly midnight, the car, the luggage, and the servants were ready for the anxiously awaiting travelers. Mary placed herself in the back with Dickon, who was still terrifyingly silent, exchanging a glance with Colin as he looked back from the front seat beside the driver. The ride was long and rough, each bump in the road keeping them from staying settled comfortably and jostling them against each other. Dickon did not mention the pain it must be causing him or even make a sound as one violent jolt sent his knee banging into the door and his noiselessness worried Mary. Eventually, the road smoothed out for a long stretch that was more traveled upon and the night caught up to her.

A fierce grip on her hand greeted her when a curve in the road caused her to shift and wake up. Dickon was looking out the side window, seemingly unaware of the pressure he was exerting on her hand. Gently, she covered their clasped hands with her free one, startling him.

"Sorry," he gasped in a low, gruff voice, thick and unused. They lapsed back into silence, looking out at the dark landscape through Dickon's window. The night still completely enveloped them, closing them in on all sides, and not a single star shown in the moonless sky. It was both eerie and comforting. "I can no' sleep withou' dreamin' abou' them."

Mary looked at Dickon. He had not moved. She considered that, perhaps, she had not even heard him and had fallen into some kind of very lucid dream. She chose not to acknowledge him. After a moment, he blinked and continued, "I always run an' run, but do no' make 't there in time. When I get to them, they'rt all dead, covered in dirt an' mud an' blood an' burns. Ever'thin' but their faces." He swallowed. "An'-an' they'rt just lookin' a' me and askin' 'Why? Why did tha abandon us, Sowerby? We needed tha'. Look what happen'd. 'Tis all tha's fault.'"

Mary felt like her chest was constricting. That amount of misplaced guilt must be an excruciatingly heavy burden to bear.

"Did you ever feel like that toward the men who could not come back after they were injured?" She probed.

Dickon shrugged and shook his head. "T'was always bad enow' that we figured they died when we did no' hear news. T'was better than the alternative." He gestured vaguely down to his leg with an angry glare. "An' th' ones who ate their own bullet...we never blamed 'em. Some days...we saw so much..."

Schooling the horrified expression that marred her face was impossible as Mary listened to Dickon and he trailed off when he saw it.

Those black thoughts were the ones he had worked hard to keep from her, but the dark anguish he was feeling had diminished the hold he had clamped them down with. Perhaps if it had been any other chap but Allen, he would have kept better control. He had attempted to explain to Mary the night they slept in the garden about the peculiar way you became fast friends and brothers with the man beside you in the hole. Something about the terrifying thrill of laying belly down on foreign soil for the first time and having a loaded gun in his hands made him attach himself to someone who could relate to the way his hands shook after that first time he had to pull the trigger knowing the target on the other side was not a dummy, but a living breathing lad just like himself. Dickon felt closer to him then he did to any of his own brothers. They had never experienced the devastating low of losing another man or the euphoric high that a letter from home brought. They had never had to turn to him, lift their dirt covered helmet, and ask, "Still breathing, Sowerby?" and mean it.

"I know it is hard," Mary said, running her fingers over his. "But I am selfish and I would rather have you back like this than not at all."

Damaged, Dickon thought, she meant damaged. Damned and damaged.

"Any of us would have taken a bullet for the other," he said because it seemed like something he desperately needed her to know, how close they were down there.

"You did," she reminded him. He wished he could remember stepping in front of the mortar, maybe then he would not feel so guilty, like he had done something besides leave them out there alone on the front.

"Not enough of them," he said softly.

Mary floundered for something to tell him that would relieve the self-condemnation that was etched all over his face. In the end, she said nothing.

They arrived in London just before mid-day meal. They delayed the meal in favor of going directly to the hospital at King's College. The letter had not stated how badly Allen was injured, but presented the matter with some urgency. The closer to the ward they went, the slower Dickon limped along. The cramped and jostling ride had in no way helped his leg, but Mary suspected it was worsening for other reasons as well.

Doctor Daubney met them at the ward door, wiping his hands on his apron and keeping it folded in his hand. Mary could see the rusty red streaks he had left behind in the folds. "I did not realize you would arrive so soon."

"We left as soon as we could from the Manor," Colin told him, clapping a hand on Dickon's shoulder and pressing him forward, toward the ward. "Can we enter?"

The doctor assessed Dickon with a measured look, then gave a curt nod and opened the door behind him.

A queer, strangled sound curled out of Dickon and Mary braced a hand on his back as she moved around him. The boy on the bed was not at all what she had expected. He was thin with fine, pale blond hair. She imagined he did not look much different than Colin would have had he remained bedridden. Suddenly, she had a greater understanding of Dickon's fast attachment to the other man. She forced him to move closer to the bed, realizing on the way that it was just to the right of the bed Dickon had occupied, like they were meant to be bunkmates, but arrived at the wrong times.

"Tha can leave me be if tha would, Miss Mary," Dickon said so quiet that she could barely hear him. It was not that he was whisper so much as his voice was so incredibly weak and thin that she could hardly catch the words.

Mary bit her lip, but nodded and backed away, letting Dickon walk down the empty isle of the ward alone. Colin took her arm and together they left through the door. Mary glanced back over her shoulder to watch Dickon lean heavily on the frame at the foot of the bed.

"We were not sure if he would make it through the night," the doctor told them as they sat in the courtyard outside. "I recognized Dickon's unit and thought, well, if his sister could not make it here in time maybe Dickon could. A familiar face and all. Then he turned in the early morning and started breathing easier. He took two bullets in the shoulder and one in the chest. He was patched up pretty well in the field, but the infection spread faster than they could get him here."

Mary rested her head against Colin's shoulder and sighed. "It may help Allen, but I fear it will tear Dickon apart. He's barely holding himself together as it is."

The doctor frowned. "I did not realize-"

"I did not understand the extent of his guilt until we were on our way here. He feels as though he abandoned them. He will blame himself if Allen dies," Mary told him, closing her eyes. She felt overwhelmingly tired. "I can only hope..."

Colin rested his hand on top of her's, silencing her. They waited in the courtyard long after Doctor Daubney left and, finally, Dickon emerged from the ward with a bleary look, stumbling slightly as he came toward them. Mary shot up and swooped under his arm, supporting him easily, as she had been for weeks.

Wordlessly, they walked him to the car and rode to the townhouse. Once there, he asked for directions to his room and fibbed off dinner, complaining of a headache. He could not eat. The food would not agree with him. His own body felt like it was straining to fly apart. Allen had not woken up that day. The nurse in the ward said the infection could still take him. He appreciated the frankness, but it made his chest constrict painfully and his stomach felt like it was in his throat from the moment she said it.

He lay back on his bed, feeling like he was floating as the space darkened. The feeling that he should have been there, could have done something, would have taken the bullets could not be shaken. He knew, plausibly, it was not so. There would have been another battle with other bullets, but maybe then they would not have come for his mate.

Mary crept in sometime after dark and left a plate on the hutch. He could tell it was her by the swish of her light dress, but did not seek out her figure in the darkened room. He never sought out the plate of food either.

Watching him come and go from the hospital day after day started to wear on Mary. Allen's sister arrived shortly after the man gained consciousness and gushed over and over about what a delight it was to have Dickon there to bolster her brother's ill health. He was an angel, she said. The comment angered Mary. He was _her _angel and they were destroying what was left of him. Every evening, he exited the ward looking a little more haggard and his footsteps always fell with a heavy clumsiness as she led him to the car each night. Then he would sit silent through the evening meal as he ground his food well past what was needed and hardly acknowledged anything said to him before pushing his half-eaten plate away and begging their leave for the night. All progress he had made seemed to crumble away.

Allen took a turn for the worst unexpectedly. His condition deteriorated swiftly during the night and when Dickon arrived the following day, they would not allow him to take up his vigil beside the man's beside as he had for the past week. Mary feared Dickon would collapse right there in the hospital. He stood for a long while, a lone figure before the white door with it's small silver plate, then coughed and trudged out to the car where the driver took them back to the house.

When the screaming started that night, only an hour after they had taken to bed, Mary and Colin near bowled each other over in effort to don their house coats and run down the hall at the same time.

"I'll go," Mary whispered defiantly to Colin as she beat his hand to the doorknob. Colin nodded and sank the floor and leaned on the wall across from the door. He would wait there.

Dickon was tangled in his sheets, gripping the only pillow left on the bed. The others were haphazardly strewn across the room. She called his name several times, nearly growling in frustration when Dickon did not hear her. Touching him had earned Colin a fist to the gut once, months ago, and Mary did not wish to see a repeat of the dog-eyed looks Dickon had given them all for days after. She grimaced and took up the pitcher of water she had left earlier by his food when he skipped dinner.

Dickon flailed wildly as the cool water struck him, dousing his head and the lone pillow. He sat up, dripping and panting, supporting himself with his arms as he squinted into the dark. Mary walked over and took up the end of the blanket to wipe his face down. An apology seemed needless. Dickon watched her face dazedly while she smoothed the blanket corner over his cheeks and forehead.

With a shuddering sigh, Dickon closed his eyes and gathered her hands, pushing them away from his face.

"Tha should go back t' tha own bed," Dickon told her stiffly, not moving for a beat and then rolling away from her slowly and pillowing his head on his arm.

"If tha want me t'," she whispered, giving his hair one last stroke.

Dickon did not respond, knowing she would take it as an affirmative.

He listened to her rustled her way off the bed and pad across the wood floor. The door opened with a soft click. A moment later, the door closed and he heard her speaking quietly with Colin as they walked down the hall.

Dickon pulled the damp blanket closer to him. Allen was dying as his own health was ever growing. The doctors continued to comment on his astounding ability to walk without a cane each day and only minimally debilitating limp. All while Allen spoke half delirium mixed with news of the other boys from the line. Two others were gone. It had been Matthews who lost his arm when Dickon had shielded the others. John was still there, but he had taken to picking fights when his hands got shaky. Only way to calm them, he said.

No one was holding them together. They did not have a Mary who would come toss water on them when they screamed at night. They did not have someone to care for them anymore.

He clutched the blanket tighter in his fist and bit a knuckle to keep the keening whine from escaping as he succumbed to the burning pressure in his eyes.

Laying in her bed, Mary blinked up at the dark ceiling. Sleep would not come. She could hear Dickon shifting around still in the room down the hall and more than anything, she wanted to go back down the hall and tell him that she would be damned if she could not find a way to make him feel whole again. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing could do_ that_. Not for the first time, she felt the burn of tears in her eyes as she thought about how utterly helpless she was.

Before midnight, she heard him walk heavily down the stairs and out the front door. Sleep was resolutely futile after that point. When she heard him enter hours later, his footsteps uneven and loud, she opened her door and watched his retreating back as he listed slightly and stumbled over the rug. Anger burned her. Anger at herself. At him. At the war. At how hopeless everything seemed at that moment.

Colin had watch Mary sit primly through breakfast and did not comment on the two extra cups of tea she consumed. Nor did he comment when she walked straight-backed into the family parlor and took up a book without commenting on the missing member of their trio. He took up a newspaper and sat across from her and turned the newspaper pages slowly, waiting for her to say something. A few hours passed before they heard a commotion from upstairs and then the unmistakable sound of vomiting from the water closet.

Colin closed the book he had abandoned the paper for, but Mary had not moved. She did not even appear to be hearing the noise. He coughed.

"Oh, fine," she snapped in an exasperated tone, "But I don't know what you expect me to do about it."

She slammed her book closed and nearly threw it in his lap as she passed him. He grimaced and hefted the thick tome only the side table.

Mary stalked through the open door of the bathroom and stood in front of Dickon, who was curled miserably in front of the toilet and heaving.

"Did it make you feel any better?" She asked him, her voice sharp.

Dickon shook his head, only to think better of it halfway through when another wave of nausea bubbled up. He had only thought the embarrassment of being nearly helpless in front of Miss Mary could not be topped. This was worse.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Then why, pray tell, did you think it would be a good idea?"

"One o' th' nurses. She said som'thin' abou' makin' me for'ge-" A great heave interrupted him.

A snort came from above him. "A nurse? Next time, ask me. Or Colin. Or anyone else who could have told you that alcohol would not numb the memories. It's a depressant! Have you ever even been drunk before?"

Dickon had been absent for Mary and Colin's dalliance into the childish rite of passage that was breaking into the household liquor reserves. Martha had caught them sneaking back from the garden, stumbling and giggling and she was sure to be the one to bring in the most awful smelling food as she flung open the windows and sang the loudest and out of key Yorkshire tune Mary had ever heard as the cousins lay wincing up at her from Colin's bed and sofa. If that were not punishment enough, they had to listen to her bawl them out for nearly half an hour before sending them to wash. Mary had since never exceeded anything more than a glass of wine at dinner.

"Once. In France," he said between breathes, spitting out the putrid saliva mix that had accumulated in his mouth. His temples were pounding and the angle he was kneeling at made parts of his knee go numb and spike with pain at the same time.

He didn't want to have to explain to her that it had been a desperate attempt to make him stop feeling. Just for a moment maybe. So that the pain that seemed always be ripping him apart would just calm down for a spell and he could breath without thinking about-

Mary did not say anything. She could not think of anything else to say. It had not been a childish game that he had been playing and chiding him as Martha had her and Colin seemed cruel. She knew why he had turned to the drink. Frankly, she was surprised no one had thought this might happen sooner. She was more frustrated than angry. Every time he got better, something alway seemed to come along and knock him back and they would have to work twice as hard to gain ground again. Showing him the letter had probably been a bad idea.

She shook her head to herself and began to retreat from the bathroom.

"Art tha disappointed in me, Miss Mary?" he asked in a single rushing breath, his voice rough and low.

Mary huffed from the doorway.

"You are a brave and honorable man, Dickon Sowerby. I will never think of you as anything less," she said before pulling a face and sniffing the air delicately. "I cannot, however, endure this foul stench you have made around yourself any longer. Bathe, please, before you grace us for noontime meal."

The incident was not forgotten, but Mary and Colin had accepted Dickon's profuse apologies by the time Doctor Daubney called on them a week later, after Dickon had all but abandoned hope of being let back into the ward, and Mary sat tensely as the housemaid escorted him in and poured tea into a flowered china cup. Colin's grip on her shoulder as he stood behind her chair was bruising.

"He's come out on the other side of the fever. Pneumonia. Knew it was a possibility. He'll have a long recovery, but I think he'll make it," he said as he sipped.

"Thank heavens," Mary heard Colin breath out as she rested her head in her hands. She had thought the worst when he was announced into their study. Dickon was sitting in a chair opposite her with his head buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking and when he finally looked up at her, he was smiling as he wiped at his eyes. She grinned back. Maybe things were looking up.

* * *

><p>AN: There will be another chapter. Life was pretty much like, forget writing, I have things you must do right now. Sorry this one took so long. Hopefully I will have time to finish the last chapter soon.


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